Page 1 of Always the Matchmaker

Candy

Three days ago up the steep snowy slope into Ribbon Cove, Colorado, my car chugged to a heartbreaking stop. It wasn’t the first time I’d driven home in my baby, but it was the first time she’d ever failed me. I stare at the ground outside of the Cove Car Center, feeling dejected.

The start to my dream of the five of us friends coming back to our hometown for a relaxing vacation sure has been thrown a few loops. Some good. Some bad. After watching my dear friends, Belle and Wynter, find new found loves, Belle with the warm and sensitive Cohen and Wynter with the cocky and silver-fox Zac, admittedly, I was both happy for them, and a little out of sorts for me.

My love life was like my car—out of commission lately.

Out of all five of us, I was the only one that stuck close to my roots and returned home on a regular basis. Although the last three years, it’s been a lot less because I’ve been so busy. After my mother’s passing, and his retirement, I thought Dad might move into Denver to be near me, the only child, but a part of my heart was happy he stayed in my childhood home and kept our roots in the ever vibrant and magical Ribbon Cove.

Bundled up in my thick red coat and white scarf, a striped beanie on my head keeping the old at bay, I pace outside the sparkling metal, double garage doors. I’ve been waiting for what seems like an hour. The plastic poinsettia wreath on the door creates just enough holiday flare that I smile briefly, but the door’s plastic hand-written sign and simple website both indicate opening hours are at 8 a.m, and that wipes the smile away. With it nearly 9:00 and the doors not open, my broken down car is possibly looking more reliable than his.

On clicking of metal chains, the garage door finally cracks opens, my watch reading 9:15. Today’s warming quickly with temps forecasted to be in the lower fifties, which to a Coloradan is like seventy with a bright sun, so I’m sure while working, it’s more like being in Florida to the mechanics.

I recognize the man at the garage door chain. He drove the tow-truck to pick up my car the night of the breakdown. He’d also been kind enough to drop me off at the Red Wreath Inn where me and the girls are staying, but I’d been pretty exhausted by the time he got to me, not to mention teeth-chattering cold, so I don’t even know what his name is and he didn’t seem to be the big guy for Cove Car Care. I give him a small wave and he smiles, waving back before disappearing into the back office.

I can see my baby up on metal lifts, suspended in the air like an angel. A 2004 Toyota Avalon cherub, the color of faded burgundy. I swear I always took good care of her, regularly changed her oil, rotated my tires, and gave her the best tires at that.

A woman needs fantastic shoes after all.

My father bought me the car when I turned sixteen and he taught me how to take care of it. Though I regretfully admit to myself that I did let the warning lights go a little longer than I should have. But still, I’d get her in as soon as I could.

This car is my ride or die and she can’t be gone. I won’t her go. I need her.

Taking the open garage door as an invitation, I let myself in and walk toward Ava—as I call her—while glancing around. The place is a ghost town apart from the heavy rock blasting from an old boombox against the wall.

“Hello,” I shout as loud as I can, standing beside my car. I’m greeted in return with a loud bang next to me. “Jeez! What the—” I jump at the sound.

“Ow! Uh, hello.”

Turns out there were people in the garage. Ooops.

A man rolls from under my car. He winces, rubbing his forehead where he must have hit it on the undercarriage.

“Thank goodness, so what’s the—” I start but he cuts me off, holding up a finger, still rubbing his head. He makes his way to the radio and turns it down, rubbing his hands on a cloth and his greasy forehead on his sleeve.

I’ll admit, the man’s easy on the eyes, with a head of dark hair, pieces flipping out from under a ball cap, and hazel eyes that look golden from the sunlight pouring in behind me from the open doors. I don’t like looking up at him, but being as short as I am, I’m used to it. I step back and vow to keep a few feet between us so I don’t have to arch my neck so far.And maybe give me a better view of the whole package.

His arms look like pythons, my guess from lifting heavy parts around the shop rather than an actual workout regimen. His overalls are tied off at his waist, a black T-shirt forming to his chest and tight torso. It’s warm in the shop but still, he should be covering up more, if only to stop women from drooling.

Curb appeal is a trick though. I know that from selling homes, just because something looks nice from the outside doesn’t mean the floorboards aren’t uneven and the foundation cracked. I remind myself of that fact, straightening my shoulders and then recalling how I waited outside for an hour, but my annoyance doesn’t change how cute he is.

“I take it you’re the owner of this heap?” he asks me, patting a rusted spot on the side of the front bumper.

“Candace Owens,” I snap, feeling my temper turn up a few degrees at his disparaging of my baby.

“Ben Cross,” he replies, offering me a lopsided easy smile.

Only curb appeal, I think as the smile cools off my rising heat.

“Nice to meet you. Now tell me about my Ava,” I demand, folding my arms over my chest.

“Ava? Oh, Avalon. You’ve nicknamed your car. Cute.”

I tip my head, jaw clenches, and he smirks.

“Ma’am, this thing is a geriatric patient on hospice,” Ben says with a cringe. “There isn’t much positive about your ‘Ava’. Best thing is what she's wearing is on her feet.” He raps his knuckles against the rubber of my tires. “You’d be better off buying a new baby than me fixing this thing.”

Better off? The only thing I’m better off without is a man.